Our Last Dinner
by Rabblocked
Summary: It has been several months since Irene and Sherlock had seen each other and she wasn't going to contact him, but suddenly she finds herself in a situation and she cannot resist but reach out to him one final time. "Let's have dinner. Might be my last chance. IA"
1. Our Last Chance

"Let's have dinner. Might be my last chance. IA." Irene sent the text message from her hotel, unfortunately she had had to give up her house in Belgravia due to lack of payment. Funds were often low when you were a dead dominatrix.

Sherlock set his violin and bow down as he heard the familiar and long-awaited moan of his personalised text alert. He crossed to his phone slowly, realising that he hadn't heard her cry of ecstasy since he had had a sword raised above her neck. He read her message and swallowed, a heavy pit beginning to form in his stomach.

"What do you mean by 'last?' SH" He responded quickly.

Irene looked down at her phone with a small smirk. "This will be my last chance to have dinner with you. I'll never ask you again after tonight. You should take me up on the offer. IA"

He frowned, "Why? Where are you going? What's happened? SH" He hated how invested that sounded but was beyond truly caring. He didn't like where this was headed.

"Call it the end of an era. IA" She smiled slightly, surprised that he actually cared, and surprised that this made her so happy.

He furrowed his brow further, "What are you talking about? Stop being vague and just tell me. SH"

"Have dinner with me and find out. IA" She sent, knowing that she really shouldn't be doing this but unable to resist.

Sherlock sighed and ran a hand through his hair, she just had to be difficult all the time didn't she? "Where are you? SH"

"The Ritz. IA"

"I see. Come here? SH"

"Is John out? IA"

"Obviously. SH"

She rolled her eyes at his text before standing up and grabbing her coat and bag. "I'm on my way. IA"

"Do hurry. SH" He set his phone down and sat down on the couch, his hands steepled and his look pensive. He waited.

She quickly walked out of the hotel and hailed a cab. She sat in the back seat, letting her mind wander.

Sherlock closed his eyes, his mind returning to their night in Karachi. The air between them had been tense and awkward. Twice they had come close to some sort of...unmasking...and twice they had each failed to follow through, an anticipated serve where the ball unfortunately hit the net.

She dashed out of the cab and walked calmly to the door before knocking once.

Sherlock opened his eyes, returning to reality. He got up and slowly made his way downstairs and opened the door. He gave her a small nod. "Punctual, as ever." He murmured, glancing her up at down briefly.

"Of course, you know what they say, time is money." She said with a smirk, her eyes raking over him as she recalled their previous meeting.

He stepped aside to let her in. "Please." He said, gesturing with his hand.

"Why, thank you." She grinned before brushing past him and heading up the stairs and into the flat.

He followed her, keeping his eyes downcast and focusing on the steps. He opened the door for her, closing it behind them once they were both in. He turned around slowly and studied her. "So. What's this all about?" He asked.

"My... situation will be changing in a manner of weeks and it would be... inappropriate for me to have dinner with anyone." She said vaguely, walking to sit on the sofa.

He narrowed his eye at her, "Situation?" He prompted.

She lifted up her left hand, a rather large diamond ring in place. "I'm getting married."


	2. Lucky you

Sherlock swallowed as she eyed the large ring on her index finger. He glanced back at her quickly, his face clouded in indifference once more. "I see. Well, I suppose a congratulations should be in order." He murmured, brushing past her to look out the window.

Irene smiled, however, it looked a little empty and she was glad he could not see her. "I suppose they are. Funny how things turn out."

"Indeed. So, who is the lucky man?" He asked sarcastically.

"His names Ed." She told him. "And he is lucky, thank you very much. The one man that could get me to marry him." Yet again, her smile was empty.

Sherlock glanced down, frowning at her words, he too, was glad she could not see his face. "Well, at least I don't have to worry about your constant hounding and torture anymore. That's something to be grateful for." He murmured, not meaning a word of it.

Irene also frowned, did he really hate it that much? "That's true. It was getting old anyway." She responded, though it was a complete lie.

He nodded turning around, "Yes...it was." He paused a moment, taking a step forward before retreating again, "So, why are you here? Giving me an invitation in person? I won't be attending."

She smirked. "Of course." She pulled out a white envelope from her coat and passed it to him. "You get a plus one too, why wouldn't you want to come? Thought you'd want to know that I definitely won't be coming after you."

He took the invitation and glanced at it before setting it on the table, "Like I said, I won't be attending." He repeated. "Is that all?"

"Why won't you come?" She asked with a small frown, stepping towards him.

"I have no interest in seeing you walk down the aisle." He snapped.

"Why not?" She pressed further, unsure what she wanted to hear him say.

He faltered, realising how what he had just said might come off as sentimental in some fashion, "Because...it would be boring and...uneventful."

She chuckled softly. "Uneventful? Possibly the biggest event of my life."

"For you." He retorted.

"Don't you want to see me happy?" She asked curiously.

He paused, "Not really, no."

"No?" She smirked. "Great. Thanks." She said sarcastically.

"Anytime." He hissed. "Now, I'll ask you again, is that all?"

"I told you. I came for dinner." She reminded him.

He narrowed his eyes, "So you aren't happily engaged? After all, if you had been, why would you be here, if you weren't?" Observed, crossing over to her slowly.

She eyed his movements. "I am happily engaged. I came to say goodbye, goodbye to my old life."

"You mean to me." He retorted, grabbing her wrist with his hand.

She snatched her wrist back. "Stop it." She spat. "And yes, I suppose to you as well."

He glared at her and reached for it again, pulling her against him, "No." He growled darkly.

She glared back at him and once again snatched her wrist from his hand and keeping it out of his reach without moving away. She couldn't let him feel her pulse. She couldn't let her heart betray her again.

"What do you really want from me tonight, Miss Adler?" He asked lowly, bringing his hand up to cup her chin, forcing her gaze upwards.

She fixed her gaze on his. "Dinner." She replied simply, making no other move.

"Which kind?" He asked, his eyes searching hers.

"Which ever you want." Irene smirked.

"You know my answer. I'm asking for yours." He enforced.

"We'll I came for delicate dinner but I won't say no to indelicate." She replied.

"I already ate." He said simply.

"Shame." She replied before stepping away from him. "I'll go and eat with my fiancé instead then." She said, wondering if he'd try and stop her.

He grabbed her hand pulling him back, "I believe you said there were two options." He reminded her.

She raised an eyebrow. "Yes, the other is rather indelicate though." She murmured, searching his face.

"I'm aware. Obviously." He spat, eyeing her darkly.

"Sex." She said simply, a smirk on her face.

"I know." He said lowly.

"So unless you're interested in that then I'll be going." She said, pulling away yet again.

"Have a drink with me." He offered stiffly. .

"You don't strike me as a drinker." She responded.

"I'm not." He answered, reaching out for her. "Please." He said, quietly.

Irene eyed his arm, she had to stop herself from walking back over to him. "Well how can I say no when you beg?" She smirked. "Fine. I'll have a drink with you."

"What's your poison." He asked her, a small smile tugging at his lips.

"Anything strong." She replied, brushing past him and onto the sofa.

"Wine?" He asked, heading to grab two glasses.

"Wine's good. Merlot?" She asked, leaning back on the sofa.

"Fine." He answered, crossing to the fridge and taking out an expensive bottle of merlot. He poured them each a glass and brought it to her. "Here." He said, sitting down next to her.

"Thanks." She muttered, taking the glass from him and taking a heart sip.

"You're welcome." He murmured, taking a sip. He glanced at her from the corner of his eyes, "So, how did you two lovebirds meet?" He asked acidly.

"He was a client. We found love." She shrugged slightly. "Same old story."

Sherlock frowned, "I see. Well, here's to the happy couple." He grimaced, holding up his cup stiffly.

"You don't exactly look happy." She observed, turning to face him.

He gulped down his wine, "Did you expect me to be?"

"I don't know what I expected you to be. Indifferent I suppose, this certainly isn't that." She pointed out, following his lead and gulping her own wine.

He looked down, "Even indifference gets boring." He muttered.

"Right, of course. Boredom." She smirked slightly. "Oh, how I'll miss your boredom." She rolled her eyes.

He arched an eyebrow, "Well, you are the one who wanted to have dinner." He snapped.

"Touchy. Touchy." She smirked, downing the rest of her wine.

He poured her and himself another glass. "Forgive me, if I'm a bit...derailed, by the news."

"I don't understand why though, I mean we had our fun, not as much as I would have liked." She smirked but it didn't quite reach her eyes. "And you know...Karachi." She paused. "We knew nothing would ever happen."

"You know that's not true." He hissed.

She quirked an eyebrow at him. "What?"

He took a large sip of his wine, "You heard what I said." He spat again.

"What are you implying?" She asked, once again downing the wine.

He sighed, "Nothing, forget it."

"No. Tell me." She said, turning on her side to look at him properly.

He inhaled and turned towards her, "Can we just...enjoy each other for once...before I'll never see you again." He said quietly.

"Enjoy each other?" She asked with a raised eyebrow and a smirk, trying to lift the extremely heavy tension that had descended on them.

He glared at her, "Not in the conjugal sense, Miss Adler. Purely, intellectually."

"Miss Adler." Irene murmured. "I'll miss that. And I know what you meant."

"Me too." He said quietly, finishing his glass.

She gazed at him for a moment, there was so much she wanted to say to him. So much she couldn't say. She closed her eyes as she willed the words away.

"Well, I guess there's nothing left to do but get drunk, eh?" He said, uncharacteristically.

"That's the plan." She blinked her thoughts away and smirked, drinking straight from the bottle.

He arched an eyebrow, the picture of her mouth around such a phallic symbol a bit...disconcerting. "Right."

She couldn't help but smirk slightly as she realised how it looked when she drank from the bottle, she took it further into her mouth than necessary as she drank before easing it out and passing it to him.

He took it and eyed her before taking a swig, "Thanks." He muttered.

She simply nodded, her fingers absentmindedly twisting the ring on her finger.

He took another swig, and handed it back to her, "Here."

She took the bottle back and swigged it. "Good wine."

He glanced at the ring, "I don't get it." He said vaguely.

She raised an eyebrow at him. "Pardon?"

"Marriage...I don't understand." He tried to explain.

"It's what two people do when they love each other." Irene shrugged, taking another drink from the bottle.

"So, you believe in love, now? With him?" He asked, unable to hide the hurt in his voice.

"Is this about love in general? Or me loving him?" Irene asked.

"Both." He said, casually, finishing the bottle.

"How do you explain love? It just kind of happened really. Out of the blue, I wasn't even aware of it myself until it happened." She shrugged slightly. "And him because he's the only man that really counts, you know? The only one who is actually worth it." Irene was very well aware that she was not talking about her husband to be.

"The one man that...matters." He said, trying to be as matter-of-factly as he could.

"You could say that, yeah." She said with a small smile before taking another drink.

He nodded, "So why are you here with me instead of with him?" He questioned, looking at her before tentatively placing a hand on her left knee.

She looked down at the hand and swallowed, the alcohol hazing her brain. "I told you, to say goodbye."

"Well you could have said goodbye and left by now...yet you are still here, sharing a bottle of wine, with me..." He looked at her darkly.

"If I'm going to say goodbye then I might aswell do it properly." She murmured.

"And what is your definition of 'properly?'" He asked.

She mused this for a moment. "I'm not sure."

He reached his hand over to pull her cheek over to look at him, "Tell me." He said, lowly.

She searched his gaze, seeing as she could look nowhere else. "Tying up loose ends. There were a lot to tie with us...Too many." She murmured.

He nodded, taking his hand away, "Yes, yes there are." He swallowed as his eyes went from her lips back to her eyes.

She glanced down at his own lips. "So I came here hoping to tie a few."

"Which ones specifically?" He asked quietly.

She shrugged slightly. "There are many. I didn't have any in mind specifically. I just... didn't want to get married knowing that there would be nothing else for us. That that was how we were leaving it."

"I see. Well, do you want there to be something else for us? It seemed rather clear in Karachi." He murmured, pained at the memory.

She shook her head. "I love him." She lied weakly. "I just wanted to know. Curiosity I suppose."

"You mean to know if I wanted anything?" He tried to understand.

Irene nodded. "To know if there ever was a possibility of anything."

"Well, love and sentiment are clearly off the table, you've already found those, so what else remains?" He asked somewhat bitterly, his heart breaking that anything that might be left between them would have to be purely physical, purely lust. When he felt so much more. Still, he'd rather have her once and as his for one night, than never.

"So you never felt love or sentiment towards me?" Irene asked, trying not to let her voice betray her disappointment and heartbreak. "That's all I needed to know."

Sherlock swallowed and looked down at his drink. He couldn't tell her yet, if ever. "N-no...nothing like that." He lied.

"Good." She said quickly, taking the bottle from him and taking a deep drink.

He sighed, "Give me that." He said asking for the bottle. "So what does this dream man look like? Hm? Oh God, I hope he's not all buff and supermodely? Or a bodybuilder Who wears tight white t shirts and has a ponytail?"

Irene couldn't help but chuckle. "Nothing like that." She rolled her eyes. "He's a CEO of a computing business. Not as exciting as supermodel or body builder. Rich though."

"So he looks like a horse than?" Sherlock asked, praying it was true.

Irene laughed again. "No. He's quite good looking actually."

"How are his cheekbones?" He asked offensively.

She rolled her eyes at him. "Well I wouldn't cut myself on them."

"Hmph, sound like a clout." He mumbled. "I'm somewhat disappointed in you, Miss Adler." He continued.

"Just because you have pretty amazing cheekbones doesn't mean that my future husband has to have them." She muttered

He glared at her, "The lady doth protest too much methinks." He spat.

She glared at him. "What are you suggesting?"

"Do try and think, Miss Adler." He hissed.

She narrowed her eyes at him. "He might not be perfect but he's mine." She hissed.

He sat up and turned towards her, "There's no way you truly love him. He was a client. Therefore, he is a submissive. And while you dominate them for money, I'm confident in my beliefs that a sub is the last thing you would want to go home to everyday or sleep with every night. Face it Miss Irene Adler, you are and always will be a top who secretly loves to be topped. In every sense of the word. Physically, intellectually, hell, even emotionally. You like a challenge. It turns you on, in every way. A man that is a sub and that has the bore to choose being a CEO as a career clearly does not have the brains or wit or intellect of your level. He is business, business, business. And faced it dear, we both know how boring financial figures can be. He will wine you and dine you and be charming, I'm sure. Show you off to the world. You will go to party after gala, after ball, and you will be the belle of them all, I'm sure. But when it comes down to it, at the end of the day, you'll have to strip off your beautiful, lavish dress, and get in bed with a man who has mommy issues and wants to be spanked. Is there anything really more degrading or mood killing than a man who wants to be hit till he cries and then fuck? Besides, judging by his salary figure, I'm quite certain he's compensating for something downstairs. Shame. So, do you love him?" He chuckled deeply, "I think not." He took a breath, having spoken his deduction at rapid speed and took a chug of wine, needing the strength.

Irene just stared at him blankly for a moment, her mouth slightly agape. He was right. Of course he was right. She snatched the bottle off of him again and drank deeply before sighing. "You're right." She groaned slightly. "He's such a bore."

Sherlock hid a smug grin, "Thank you. That wasn't so hard." He replied, pausing a moment before asking, "So then why are you marrying him?"

Irene sighed and slumped back in her seat. "Money. It always comes down to money. And protection. He can give me both."

Sherlock nodded, slowly, "I see, makes sense. Well, lucky you." He said somewhat sadly.

Irene laughed harshly. "Yeah. Lucky."

He glanced at her and hesitantly reached his hand out to place it on top of hers and squeezed it lightly.


	3. Broken

"Do you have any Scotch?" She asked suddenly. "I want to get blindingly drunk."

She was only slurring her words a little as she was only tipsy at this point. Nowhere near drunk enough; still capable of coherent thought, which she desperately did _not _want to be capable of. She didn't want to think about _him_-the man she would be tying herself to forever. It was too much, too utterly depressing. She needed one night to be happy. One night with the only _him_-Sherlock.

"I think John does." Sherlock replied, raising a brow at her comment, which only proved his point more. His deduction that she was nowhere close to being in love with the man. He walked to the liquor cabinet, peering in it before taking out a rather nice bottle of scotch. He grabbed two classes and poured them each a shot.

"You sure you're alright?" He asked her as he watch her walk towards him slowly. He took a moment to asses her before handing her the class.

"Yes, I'm fine. I'm basically sober." She muttered with a smirk before downing the drink and handing the glass back to Sherlock to fill up.

He gazed at her, impressed before throwing back his own shot and refilling their glasses.

"You definitely aren't sober." He remarked, lowly.

"Fine, not drunk _enough _then." She relented facetiously, taking a sip of the shot, deciding to go slightly slower this time.

He smirked to himself at her agitation before warning her lightly, "Careful Miss Adler, alcohol is supposedly a truth serum." He eyed her before sipping his own shot as well.

"I'm willing to take that risk." She murmured, finishing her drink before glancing up at him and narrowing her eyes suspiciously, "You don't strike me as someone who drinks." She commented.

"I don't." He confirmed.

"Then why are you drinking now?" She asked, taking the bottle to fill up her glass before crossing -well _stumbling_, back towards the sofa.

He shrugged, following her to the couch. "I'm bored."

She turned to face him, catching herself on the back of the sofa when she nearly fell off.

"Oh, I'm sorry. You're bored?"

Sherlock finished his glass. He noticed his head was beginning to get fuzzy as he sat down on the couch next to her. He felt..._odd_. Uninhibited...risky and daring. He looked at her, his pupils dark, and continued, "I'm usually bored."

"What a dull life you must lead." She muttered, downing the rest of her drink and clumsily putting the glass on the table, nearly slipping sideways and onto Sherlock in the process but managing to steady herself.

"Miss Adler, you appear to both be unable to walk _and_ unable to even sit properly, he observed, catching her petite form and assisting her to an upright position, beginning to get too drunk to stiffen at the intimate, physical contact.

"Perhaps you should take off your heels." He suggested, eyeing her legs darkly.

"Probably a good idea" She slurred, falling on the sofa next to Sherlock and slipping off her shoes, flexing her toes slightly.

He glanced down at her 5-inch Christian Louboutin, red-soled heels. They were the same she had been wearing the day they met he recalled, have a secret, special fondness for them, and her in them.

He cleared his throat and shook his head, forcing him back into the present as he commented dryly, "I don't know how you women walk around in those things." He muttered.

"You get used to them." She murmured, resting her head back. "Plus, we look damn good in them." She winked at him. "Want to know why it is that men find it so attractive?"

He snorted, somewhat offended that she thought him _that_ daft that he couldn't even deduce the obvious attraction to the female form being lifted and elevated. "High-heels accentuate the legs, pronounce one's backside, and lift the breasts." He replied, quickly and matter-of-factly. "It's rather apparent...Not that I pay attention or care for that sort of thing." He added quickly, looking away.

"All true, but those are the obvious reasons. There is another, much more subtler and interesting one that you have missed, Mr Holmes." She purred, leaning towards him slightly, as she did her best to keep her balance. "With Louboutins, there's a particular reasoning for the exact specifications for each heel. For the height and shape of the shoe and how it restructures its owners arch. When a woman is wearing a pair of his heels, the arch of the her foot is that which most usually occurs during an orgasm." She smirked. "Which is why men, unconsciously, find them so appealing."

Sherlock processed the information as best he could given his clouded state. "How base" He sneered, "I'm embarrassed for my sex."

She raised an eyebrow and put one of the heels back on and stuck her leg out, forcing him to look at her shapely calves and delicate, small foot.

"So you're saying, they don't affect you at _all_?" She asked dubiously, bending her leg at the knee to pronounce her lower leg further.

He swallowed forcefully as he felt a heat begin to rise from his pelvis and something stir at his loins. He furrowed his brow in confusion and annoyance before looking away quickly. "No." He lied stiffly.

"So you don't care that it's like a glance into what I look like when _I_ have an orgasm?" She pressed, not lowering her leg.

He eyed her leg, it was dangerously close to his own. He looked up at her, "Why on earth would I want to imagine _that_?" He countered, going on the offense and challenging her.

She sighed, lowering her leg. "You're a boring drunk, Mr Holmes. She leaned back with a stretch. "I don't know, maybe you have pent up sexual frustration?" She offered. "Let's not beat around the bush. I _am_ an attractive woman, even you cannot deny that."

"That may be true Miss Adler, but I thought I made it clear that I'm not interested in such affairs." He spat.

"Or it's the fact that I'm an attractive _woman_. Maybe I should give these heels to John. Might spark your interest." She laughed.

His eyes snapped back to hers, his nose twitching. "I. Am. _Not_. Gay." He hissed, lowly.

"I don't believe you." She said mockingly. "I've seen the way you are around him. Never seen you like that with any woman. Never even seen you show the slightest interest in any woman, as a matter of fact." She murmured, doing a successful job of not sounding bitter.

"We're _friends_. Platonic mates." He growled. "You misunderstand my constitution, Miss Adler. I have no interest in romance of _any_ kind. It distracts and is a waste of time." He explained irritatedly.

"Oh dear, I'm not talking about _romance_, dear, I'm talking about _sex_." She corrected him with a wry smile before continuing her pursuit, "So, if you've never shown any interest in women and you're not gay, are you _asexual_?" She asked, the alcohol aiding her in being so blunt and curious with him.

He faltered at her question, his mind racing to calculate and process his inner being.

"I don't know. I've never thought about it..." He began. "I know I am not interested in men." He replied, the alcohol effecting his openness.

"Do you not know if you're attracted to women?" She asked with a raised eyebrow.

Sherlock glanced at her briefly before nodding his head slowly and stuttering his confession, "No, I-I, uh, know that I am."

"So you aren't asexual then. You're '_straight_'" by conventional society's sexual labels." She pointed out, pausing to review his recent statement before asking with a foxish grin, "How, how _exactly_ do you know, though?"

He paused for a moment, considering his answer, deciding to answer truthfully. What the hell, he figured, he'd never see her again. What did this-_their_-whole charade even matter anymore? There was no real point in continuing it tonight, for he never would have to again. She would be gone from his life forever. So, it was time for a bit of honesty he decided.

"Because I've been attracted to one." He said slowly.

"_Really_? I can't see you being attracted to anyone." She teased him, surprised by his blunt honesty. She smirked at him, scooting closer to him on the sofa. "Well then, if you're attracted to women and not men. Chances are, you're straight, like I said." She commented.

"I suppose so." He responded, his lips twitching slightly at her proximity.

"Either way, I'm still no way _near _drunk enough." She murmured, before jumping up suddenly and stumbling as she tripped over her left foot. She fell backwards landing in Sherlocks lap, dizzy, though giggling at her clumsiness, usually being so graceful and free with her body.

He caught her, his hands grasping her hips as she fell into his lap. Her face was inches from his and her arse landed on his groin. He withheld a low moan at the sudden contact.

She peered at him. "That wasn't supposed to happen." She sniggered unapologetically, noticing how his breath had caught in his throat.

"Drunk, Miss Adler?" He asked lowly, licking his lips as he realised just how close hers were to his.

"It appears so." She murmured, gazing into his eyes, which were frightfully close to her own. She had a feeling that the alcohol was clouding her judgement, her control of the situation, but couldn't be bothered to care.

"You have interesting eyes." She said out of the blue. "Interesting colour, I mean. A sort of blue with specks of turquoise and gold...I, I like them." She murmured softly.

He searched her eyes, his brow furrowed, taken aback by her intimate words. "T-thank you." He stuttered, not knowing what else to say.

She grinned a dazzling smile at him as the alcohol swept through her brain preventing her from knowing how out of character she was being.

"You're welcome" She smiled.

"Feeling..._sentimental_, Miss Adler?" He asked, with a smug smirk as he discovered he now at the upper hand.

Her face darkened almost immediately at his utterance of the 'S' word. "Oh, fuck off, Sherlock." She said simply, the alcohol talking. "I'm fed up of all this sentiment shit."

"Then stop giving me such undeniable ammunition." He countered, gripping her hips tighter.

"Fine. I will." She snapped. "It's not like what I said was even that revealing...or sentimental." She lied, mumbling more to herself than him.

Sherlock felt her shift her weight, her arse causing friction against his groin. He bit his lip at the bolt of subtle, throbbing pleasure that ran through his body. He swallowed before remarking, "You're dreadful at lying." He eyed her smooth thigh that had been exposed as her dress had ridden up when she fell. He let out a huff of desire before running his hand to her thigh, utterly unable to stop himself.

She raised her brows and let out a low moan at his touch. "Apparently alcohol _is_ a truth serum." She commented about her reaction.

He squeezed her thigh lightly relishing the feel of her muscles and bare flesh beneath his hand. "Is there something you would like to tell me?" He asked slowly, his eyes dilating.

"I like having your hand on me." She blurted out suddenly. "_Fuck_, I _need _to stop doing that." She muttered, half meaning it and half wanting him to call her out on it, to push things further.

He flexed his grip again, unknowingly this time as his primitive male instincts began to emerge. "_Why_?" He dared to ask.

"Mmmm." She moaned again at his hand's assault. "Why _what_?"

"Why should you stop?" He explained, his fingers now tracing her inner thigh lightly.

"Because..." She began, "Blurting out the first bloody thing that comes into my head isn't exactly the wisest move." She breathed, arching her back as his hand slowly worked it's way north on her upper leg.

"Afraid you'll admit your love for me, Miss Adler?" He husked into his ear, the alcohol causing him to ask questions with subjects that he otherwise would never desire to bring up with her.

She chuckled lowly "_You wish_, Mr Holmes." She purred, managing, somehow, not divulge her honest answer.

"And why would I wish _that_?" He asked, beginning to knead her inner gracilis muscle.

She gasped as he found his way to the portion of her upper thigh that came right before her centre. He was _close_, so _very_ close to her most sensitive and intimate area. It was tantalizingly arousing and frustrating.

"Ammunition." She murmured, swallowing her lust down, to echo his earlier words.

"Now you're just quoting me." He breathed against the back of her neck. "My, my someone's fond." He continued smugly.

A flash of anger ran through her as a tiny part of her that was still loyal to her self-preservation and heart's protection fumed with annoyance at him.

"Seriously Sherlock. Fuck off with the whole sentiment thing. I'm drunk and about to get married. Now is _not _the time." She hissed.

He quirked an eyebrow at her sudden mood swing but persisted in his inquiry, "Yet, you continue to sit on _my_ lap...deductions could be made, my dear."

She leaned forward, locking her gaze with his, glaring at him darkly before retaliating herself, saying, "And your hand continues to explore _my_ thigh...'deductions could be made.'"

"Where else would you like it?" He asked unexpectedly, daringly. His brain was fuzzy and uninhibited.

"Now deductions _could _definitely be made, Mr Holmes." She husked. "Mhmm."

She took a moment to ponder how to advance before grabbing his hand, a wicked glint in her eye, and slipping it under her dress, placing it against her hot centre. "_There _works." She purred.

Sherlock's eyes flew open in shock and slight anxiety as he felt his hand make contact with her apex. He took a moment to asses her. She was warm and moist-_very _moist. Her knickers lacey and soaked wet with her desire. He closed his eyes and swallowed, praying that he could and would regain control.

"Wha-what are you doing?' He stuttered slowly.

She released her grip on his hand, thus allowing him to make it _his _decision whether he kept it there or not.

"You asked me where I'd like it. I answered your question." She breathed before leaning closer to him, her face an inch from his. "You know, I really liked that piece you played before. You really are good at playing the violin. Why don't you show me that excellent _fingering _you employ?" She asked breathily.

He quirked a confused eyebrow as he evaluated her double entendre as his fingers began to trace her over her knickers lightly, running them up her slit to find her swollen clit ready and eager to be touched. He circled it slowly, not touching it directly, however.

"You're about to get married, Miss Adler," He reminded her quietly, "Are you sure you should be asking me this?" He waited for her answer, his fingers continuing their onslaught. He secretly prayed she would say yes. He wanted her. He had _always_ wanted her, loathe as he was to admit it. And now he downright _needed_ her, as he felt his member begin to swell and harden beneath her arse.

Irene bit her lip and let out a deep moan as he teased her throbbing nub. God she wanted him. She swallowed, closing her eyes to enjoy the sensation as she responded breathily, "About to get _unhappily_ married, as you've pointed out multiple times. Besides, I'm in the market for a lover. Consider it your audition." She smirked to herself, rocking her pelvis against his hand, needing more contact.

He grunted at the sensual sounds she was emitting and shifted her weight as his trousers began to tighten with his growing erection.

"You think _I _would be your lover?" He scoffed, though his hand remained on her mound.

"Once you've given me a go. You won't be able to stay away." She purred, grinning to herself as she felt his obvious arousal beneath her.

"I thought I made it clear, I'm _not_ interested." He lied, stressing the words as he did his best to keep is desire and need out of his voice.

"Mmm, your hand _and _your trousers plead the opposite, Mr Holmes. Plus, we've both definitely had too much alcohol to be able to say no. Maybe you just need a little more incentive." She whispered before taking his hand again to slip it under the fabric of her knickers, now no material separating their flesh.

It was the first time that Sherlock Holmes had ever _touched_ a woman in such an intimate place. He swallowed, his eyes locking with hers. She was even warmer and wetter in the raw, dripping actually. He felt his cock grow as he fondled her folds. He slid his finger along her slit. finding her entrance as his thumb rubbed her clit. He had no idea what he was doing but he swore he would figure it out.

"I can always say no." He growled.

Irene closed her eyes, her breathing heavy, at the feel of his warm fingers on her. "Well, you're not being very convincing." She breathed.

"Am I not?" He asked, slowly inserting a single digit in her.

She gasped, a soft moan hitching in the back of her throat as he penetrated her. "No, not even slightly. I mean, I'd guess that you wanted this. _Really _wanted this." She murmured between moans and grunts.

He shifted in his seat again his member aching with need for release. There was no doubt she could feel it, having had commented on it moments before. He cleared his throat as his fingers continued to probe her.

"I don't." He was barely able to lie, unsure of how much longer he could feign disinterest, his lust beginning to overthrow him.

She opened her eyes and grinded her arse against his boner. She glanced up at him giving him her most lustful look, which was quite an achievement seeing as she was completely drunk and more than a little overwhelmed.

"Your poker face is horrendous." She whispered, amused.

"Are you calling me unattractive or a bad liar?" He asked lowly.

"The latter. Obviously." She murmured.

He quirked an eyebrow, "So you _do_ think I'm attractive?" He asked, inserting another finger into her.

She closed her eyes again, another gasp escaping her mouth as her body moved with his touch.

"Yes." She half breathed, half gasped. "You're gorgeous, Mr Holmes." She was back to blurting things out again.

"Likewise, Miss Adler" He slurred, gazing at her as he began to pump his fingers in and out of her.

"Then stop feigning disinterest" She said, shortly, her hands clutching at his forearms.

He growled as he bucked his hips against her, his erection grinding against her arse.

"Do I really seem so disinterested?" He asked lowly.

She moaned at the mixture of feelings. "Much better." She murmured in approval.

Sherlock glanced from her eyes to her mouth. He licked his lips before leaning up in an effort to catch her lips with his own.

Irene brought up a hand and pressed a finger against his lips. "Now now, dear. We're about to fuck. Not make love. Your sentiment is showing." She purred, tracing his lips with her finger.

He pulled back, searching her eyes for a moment. "Right. Of course. Don't know what I was thinking." He mumbled, a stab of pain erupting in his chest.

She looked down at his face, his wonderful, beautiful face which showed a slight flicker of something. Hurt? Rejection? For a moment she wondered whether she can hide it. Conceal the burning desire to kiss him; kiss him with as much tenderness that she could muster. This lasted for a moment before she shook her head internally, dislodging the thought. This was sex, _not_ love. How could she leave him and get married if it was?

"Obviously not." She murmured, not looking him in the eye.

Sherlock grasped her in his arms and stood up, carrying her into the his room and placed her down gently on his bed.

"Miss it?" He asked, referencing his bed with a smirk.

Her gaze snapped back to his "Miss what?"

"My bed." He said curtly.

"Yes, I do. It smells like you." She confirmed, recalling the day she had slipped into his flat and had the luxury of taking a nap in his sheets. She shut her eyes and sighed. She needed to stop, really stop.

"Careful Miss Adler, need I remind you of the 'S-word?'" He asked, perching on the bed.

"I'm not ashamed of thinking you smell nice. I like the smell of gingerbread too, doesn't mean it has a special place in my heart." She mumbled.

He smirked, "Gingerbread? Me too." He murmured, gazing at her for a moment too long.

She sat up, ignoring the dizziness and smiled at him. Not a smirk, a genuine smile.

"I always buy myself a gingerbread man when I'm feeling sad. And bite it's head off when I'm feeling mad." She laughed lightly.

He laughed heartily. The first time he had ever done so in front of her. He felt so _happy_ in that single moment. Content and full.

"The latter is much more you." He replied with a small smile.

She couldn't help but grin at his laugh before her face sobered slightly, her feelings seeping through her drink-filled haze.

"You obviously don't see the sadness then." She murmured softly, her voice haunting.

He gazed at her before leaning forward and capturing her lips with his. Fuck her rules, he thought. She was a woman who deserved to be happy-_loved_.

Irene closed her eyes, the feeling of his lips on hers feeling so... sweet...familiar. Comforting.

She kissed him back for a moment before realising that she couldn't-she _couldn't_ do this. She couldn't let herself get hurt.

"No. _No_. Stop it!" She half spat, pushing him off of her.

He looked at her, hurt and confused. "W-what?" He asked, bewildered.

"We are not making love. You cannot kiss me." She hissed, hating the heartbroken look on his face. She willed him to bring up his usual emotionless mask; prayed he would, so that she wouldn't feel like she was being so cruel.

His face twitched. His head was buzzing. He looked at her longingly, "B-but I..._love_ you, Irene." He said quietly, unable to stop the words from coming out.

Irene's eyes widened. "You...you what?"

He swallowed, cursing himself for admitting his feelings. No turning back now he figured. "I...I love you. I-I'm _in love_ with you." He answered, looking down.

His words resonated through her, changing her.

"No." She said quietly, refusing to let herself give in to his confession. If she did, she'd never leave him and she was getting married, for God's sake. Admittedly, an unhappy marriage. But a much needed one.

"I...this was a mistake." She muttered, rolling off the bed, and stumbling to her feet though his words sobered her significantly.

"I...I…I should go." She didn't look at his face, knowing exactly how it would appear.

His heart, newly found, broke. He closed his eyes slowly, "_Please_..." He whispered, slowly reaching a hand out to her.

Irene closed her eyes, her own heart tearing in two. She walked to the door and couldn't help but glance back at Sherlock.

"Move on. Please. Forget about me, I promise you'll never hear from me again. I won't hurt you anymore." She whispered.

He opened his mouth, trying to find words, but was unable to. He closed his eyes and looked down, letting her walk out of his life forevermore.

"I'm sorry." She whispered before heading out of the door and rushing out of the flat, barely able to hold back the moisture in her eyes. As soon as she had stepped out of the flat she leaned against the door, closing her eyes and her heart before walking away from the only love she had ever known.

Sherlock heard his phone moan. He swallowed, picking it up slowly, half hoping, half dreading what she had texted him.

**Goodbye, Mr Holmes. IA**

Sherlock clenched his jaw before throwing his phone against the wall. He ran his hands through his hair as he let out an enraged scream. As hot tears slowly began to run down his cheek.

The great Sherlock Holmes, the clever detective in the funny hat, was _broken_.


	4. Repaired

It had been 5 weeks since that fateful day with Sherlock Holmes, and Irene had thought about nothing else, much to her own chagrin. She struggled to keep her composure in everyday life. Her fiancé often commented on the faraway, distant look in her eye. Try as she might those three precious words he had uttered to her, confessed to her, replayed in her mind over and over again like a broken record. The record being her heart as well as his—each consistently scratching the other with their needle, as it was fated to repeat those words for eternity in her mind—and his, she was sure.

She was broken out of her macabre thoughts, however, as a veil was pinned to her hair. She looked in the mirror and blinked furiously against the impending moisture in her eyes. She took a shaky breath, the woman attaching the veil mistaking it for nerves, reassuring her that all would be fine. That after today she would have the rest of her life to look forward to with the man she loved. Irene let out a sorrowful, sardonic laugh at just how off point and wrong the woman was. It wouldn't be fine. And she would never be happy. Things would never be fine again. But she had chosen this path, she had been given a chance to runaway with him, and out of fear, pride, and this life-long need and worry for protection, had nailed her own coffin. Irene Adler, 'The Woman,' and dominatrix extraordinaire, had made her bed and now she must lie in it—or rather, and quite ironically at that, be chained to it.

She heard everything as if from a great distance, as if from underwater or from a very high altitude, a condition she knew she would have to come to terms with, as she was lead into a beautiful chapel. She faintly heard the traditional wedding music, as she was lead down the aisle, barely hearing the whispers of compliments echoing through the hall as she past individuals by. And she certainly did not see the face of the man she was about to marry—his own, personal features were blur to her, thank God, and she prayed it would stay that way. Instead, through her tear-filled eyes, he looked like he had raven, unkempt curls, and prominent cheekbones, even a sly, annoyed smirk on his face—just as he often wore when in her company. Must to her dismay and heartache, however, after several blinks, the less than average face of her soon-to-be-husband swam into view. She smiled weakly at him, knowing she had to put on the act of the happy, eager bride, as she took her place next to him.

The service passed in an adumbrate fog. She found herself unable to keep a grasp on anything real anymore. Through the deep haze in her brain she heard the priest utter those fateful words, the only ones that were pregnant with any chance of hope for salvation or rescue. Fat chance, she thought despairingly.

"If anyone here has any reason why these two people should not be married, have them speak now or forever hold their peace."

There was a lull in the vast sanctuary, as the guests and priest waited the appropriate amount of time for anyone to 'object,' to do so; no one expecting anyone to actually take advantage of the opportunity. It was merely a formality these days. And they treated it as such. That is until, the click of slow, unimpressed, almost bored footsteps were heard as a figure lazily entered the great room.

"Miss Adler, get married? Now, that's something anyone would object to." Sherlock scoffed with a bellow, entering the church aisle idly, a gingerbread man clutched in his left hand. He looked around haughtily, apathetically, stoic to the pageantry and sentiment of the spectacle, or at least, doing his best to appear so.

His eyes finally landed on her form before meeting her own fierce, cerulean orbs, "Miss Adler." He said quietly, nodding to her briefly.

Irene's head whipped around as soon as she heard his voice, her face breaking into an impossible grin. Her eyes raked over him, taking in every detail of the man she thought she had lost forever. Her eyes lingered on his left hand and her smile grew as she locked her gaze with his. He had brought her a gingerbread man.

"M-Mr Holmes?" She swallowed once, the grin slipping from her face, as she employed her usual coquettish, amused, and somewhat walled persona with him. For show and all that. "I see your timing hasn't improved any." She murmured softly.

Sherlock walked down the aisle, ignoring the gasps and whispers that were aflutter. He walked up to the front of the church until he came to the two figures standing centred before a very baffled and confused priest. "Oh, I think my timing has become quite impeccable." He countered, turning his attention away from her to glare coldly at the sorry, pathetic, sod of a man stationed opposite her, who was even more shocked and horrified by the distribution than the priest. Sherlock smirked wickedly at him before quirking an irritated eyebrow in his direction. "Mind if I cut in?" He asked the groom astringently, acid dripping from his tone, before he rudely pushed the man aside and took Irene's hand as he hijacked the space across from her.

He took a moment to give her a small, private wink, before turning to the still dumbfounded priest, smiling at him politely before prompting him kindly, "You were saying?"

Her eyes bore into his skull. "Wh-What are you doing?" She asked quickly, even though the answer was more than obvious.

He turned back to her and caught her eyes before rolling his own in mock vexation. "What does it look like I'm doing, Miss Adler? I am getting married. Clearly." He spat.

Her mouth was agape. "We're…we're getting married?" She asked dubiously, stuttering a bit as her awe began to wear off. "Only you would interrupt a wedding to propose and marry someone." She said with slight insult, though her tone was fertile with fondness and love.

He shrugged dismissively before replying, "It's more me."

"Well then," She began, turning to address the priest, "I believe we can move forward from the part about objections. I have no idea how many men are out there waiting to make a similar entrance." She teased darkly, winking at Sherlock with a grin.

He smirked. "Well then? We haven't got all day?!" He snapped at the priest.

She hardly was able to focus on the rest of the priest's dialogue and service, though it was for a completely different and opposite reason now. So focused, and her attention so dedicated, was she to the cynical, curly-haired man in front of her. Her gaze was locked and utterly lost with and in his until the mentioning of the rings. She came out of her trance and glanced at the priest before turning to Sherlock, a bemused smirk tugging at the corners of her lips as she wondered how on earth he was going to get by this one. She raised a challenging eyebrow at him, daring him to outdo himself once again.

Sherlock echoed her raised brow mockingly, before calmly turning to the man he had usurped—who seemed to be paralysed by shock still. "Sorry, do you mind?" He asked sweetly, extending his hand to receive the rings.

Irene had to bite her lip to stop herself from laughing as her once fiancé passed him the rings slowly, a dumbfounded, idiotic look stapled to his face. Dear Lord, the man was weak.

She turned her attention back to Sherlock, waiting for their cues.

The consulting detective took the rings, smiling at the man again and muttering a noble, "Thank you,' before addressing Irene's left, ring finger and sliding the petite, gold ring up her finger. He then handed her 'his' so she could do the same, never breaking eye contact or his collected, cool stance.

She placed the ring onto his finger slowly; praying that serendipity would take pity on them and fate would prove that this was meant to be by having the ring fit him. She let out a small sigh of relief and joy as it did just that; it fit Sherlock Holmes perfectly. Her attention was then drawn back to the priest's next words, as they were finally given their vows to recite.

The priest turned first to Sherlock asking him seriously, "And do you, take this woman to be your lawfully wedded bride? To have and to hold through sickness and in health? Till death do you part?"

Sherlock gazed at her, pausing for a moment for dramatic, amused effect before responding lowly, "I do."

The priest nodded and swallowed, still a bit shaken, before then considering Irene and asking her the same, saying, "And do you, take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband? To have and to hold through sickness and in health? Till death do you part?"

Irene looked into Sherlock's eyes, a look of deliberation and debate crossing her features. Just to annoy him. She quickly broke it, however, smirking at him before answering confidently and softly, "I do."

The priest smiled slightly before announcing their official tie before the congregated guests and world, "I now pronounce you…husband and wife. You may kiss the bride." He continued, gesturing to Irene.

Sherlock's lips curled up in a small smile. He gripped her waist and pulled her against him roughly before crushing his lips to hers. He thrust his tongue in her mouth, kissing her with all the passion, force, sweetness, and most of all, love that there was in the world, his world, nay…their world.

Irene's hands flew up to cradle his face as they kissed, matching his tone and passion eagerly as she finally was able to show him just how much she loved him, how much she had always loved him. Even as the words had never been uttered by her. She didn't care about how they appeared; standing in that church, kissing so passionately, in front of a dejected groom and an outraged collection of guests. No, Irene Adler didn't care one bit. She didn't care what people thought about her, or them. She only cared about him—her Mr Sherlock Holmes, the clever detective in the funny hat.

"I love you." She finally confessed to him, murmuring the words against his lips tenderly.

He smirked lightly before retorting in mock indignation, "That's my line, Miss Adler."

"Well, learn to share, dear, because I don't plan on ever ceasing to say it." She replied between soft kisses.

"Ditto." He replied, pulling back to grin at her slyly before turning to the shocked congregation before them.

He looked around, scanning each quest quickly and trying not to deduce their life story—this wasn't the time to prove how clever he was in that sense, he reminded himself quickly. "Right, well, we're off." He announced to the room, doing his best to keep the entertainment at their foolish faces out of his tone and face. He took her hand and lead her down the aisle calmly, no apology or condolence in his air at all.

He handed her the gingerbread man as they walked, complete with a blue frosting scarf and a small heart in its chest. "Consider it, my wedding present to you." He teased playfully.

Irene admired the small gingerbread man with a smile. "And how am I supposed to eat this? It's too perfect. And I can't bite off its head, can I? At best I can…nibble on it." She murmured with a small laugh.

He shrugged, "Frame it then?" He teased, squeezing her hand firmly, before helping her down the stairs as they exited the church. "And now, Mrs Holmes, let's go home."


End file.
